The Last Hurrah

I wonder if it bodes well for us that we are always at our happiest someplace else? The details of the foreign land does not seem to matter – my husband, Arvind, and I reliably mutate into our best selves when we are in places far from home.

While at home in our apartment in the upper Haight, our lives are frantic with work, social commitments and domestic chores. The shocking number of things that we are supposed to master by our mid-thirties – a shining career, a fabulous social life and a designer home – often overwhelm us. Somehow, by thirty five, we are supposed to have achieved all of these things, and also find time to cook healthy meals with local produce, exercise everyday and not only be aware of current news, but be able to discourse amusingly on the disappearing rain forests of Borneo, and the plight of the blue-necked lizard. That last beast is fictional. I can barely remain attuned to the plight of the frizzy-haired author (ME!) let alone remember the names of the poor and desperate critters that are fast disappearing because I don’t adequately recycle my milk cartons.

So, you see, the pressure of expectations makes Arvind and me faintly scatty, and sadly, a bit absent with each other in our day-to-day interactions. But on vacation, you’d scarcely recognize me for the wild-eyed Haight Street resident, frantically trying to get groceries for dinner. On vacation, Arvind and I are expansive, glad-eyed, quick to laugh. On vacation, we strike up easy conversations with strangers and I am struck by the intelligence and thoughtfulness of my husband, qualities that I never seem to notice while at home. So perhaps it for the best that we are leaving the country for foreign lands for such a long time.

Before I tell you too much more, and make you anxious for us and our marriage – let me tell how it all began.

I guess it was early 2008. I remember it was cold, and I was holding my cell phone a little far from my ear to avoid the chill of the metal, so when Arvind spoke, I thought I’d misheard him. I’d quit my job a year ago to work full time on my dream of writing. Completing the first draft was really fulfilling and afterwards I flew to my hometown of Calcutta for three months to do some research. It was toward the end of the trip that Arvind called from San Francisco with his news.

The start-up in which he worked had been bought, and the acquisition meant that he would be receiving a nice chunk of money. By this time, I had been writing full time for about a year, and while Arvind was enthusiastic about my new unpaid career, I worried that the effort of supporting me, emotionally and financially, was a lot for him. I worried that by trying to become a writer, I was using up all the energy that we could spare as a couple, soaking up the reserves of resilience and joyfulness that would otherwise be shared jointly by both our dreams. I was anxious that I was robbing Arvind of his chance to shine in the sun. Not that I was shining – at all, if anything, my life then was more shadowy and fraught by uncertainty than it had ever been in the past. But I was getting to follow my dreams. And I wanted Arvind to be able to do the same. So I said, “You know what, baby? You earned every penny of this money. And you get to spend it all on something YOU want. We are not going to save this, we are not going to put it away for a house. You’ll spend this on something you’ve been dreaming of.”

Over here I should add that while it was a wonderful surprise, and an unexpected windfall, the money was not Silicon-Valley-huge or anything. It was an amount that a couple more sensible than us would have spent on a new car. Or spiffing up a home. But we did not own a home, and our modest Toyota Echo was plenty of car for us. And as I spoke, feeling very wifely and generous, I secretly thought I already knew what Arvind would want – he’d talked about getting a MBA and he’d once considered starting a business of his own. As I spoke I felt certain that he’d do one of these two things. Or maybe replace his Mustang that had been totaled in an accident. But no. Those were not the things he wanted.

Arvind wanted to travel the world. He wanted to travel all over the world for six months. SIX MONTHS! “Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously!” he said. “Ok!” I said, even though I was very surprised. This was not what I had thought he’d want. But he’d been supportive of my ambitions. Surely, I could do the same? “So,” my husband said, “Will you come with me?” I grew careful. I love, love, love to travel, and moving from country to country for six months is my version of heaven, but my novel was only at its first draft. I couldn’t do anything drastic until it was complete. “I’ll join you for parts of it,” I promised. “Maybe I’ll come for a month or two in between my drafts.” “Hmm!” he said, and I thought we had an agreement.

Yet, months passed and Arvind showed no signs of planning his adventure. He’s never going to go, I thought crossly. All this talk of dreams is all fine, but one must be brave like me to actually go through with things, I thought smugly. A few more months passed. I finished another draft. “When do you think you’ll really be done?” Arvind asked. I named a month. “Maybe we could start our travels after that?” Arvind said, looking at me. I did not pay much attention at the time, but later it began to dawn on me – he was not going to go without me. My gentle, proud husband was not going to insist or push – that was not his way – but he was going to wait quietly until I could go with him. His dream was not just to see the world. It was to see the world with me.

I did not directly communicate that I understood, but after that day, I was a more willing participant in the planning of our long terms travels. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t necessarily think this is the wisest thing to do – we are in our mid-thirties – the time of our life that we apparently should be doing one of three things – having a baby, buying a house or saving money to do the first two. Yet, instead, Arvind and I are spending all our cash in six months in a round-the-world backpacking trip. We will have no routine, our budget is cruelly small, we will be living – not in our sun-lit San Francisco apartment, but in pokey rooms in hostels. We will not see our friends or family for six months, we will rarely sleep in the same city for more than a week.

As we plan this, I am taken aback at just how fortunate we are. I am glad for the timely acquisition that has granted us the available cash, I’m grateful that we have no debts and most delighted at the fact that Arvind and I have our best friends and favorite traveling companions in each other. For these things, I am thankful. But also, I am thankful to have this massive amount of time.

I have this feeling that this might be the last instance that we are able to live our lives this way. Soon, our parents will grow older and need our care. Soon, we will have children who will – well – God knows what children need, but I doubt that long term travel is high on their list of necessities. As we age, our knees will hurt and our ankles grow stiff and our digestive systems will cease to be our friends. This perfect storm of time and money and companionship is unusually blessed. Mortgages and motherhood will happen when they do, but now, I have Argentina, Kyrgyzstan and Vietnam! And Peru, and China and Cambodia, Bolivia and Brazil and maybe even Indonesia. The world will be there for me all my life, I know, but for us, this is the time to see it. And we are eagerly trying out backpacks and flipping through our passports, for the next six months will be our last chance to see the world on our terms before property and parenting catches up with us. This may well be our last hurrah.

As we trot about the world for the next six months, I will tell you all I see, and all I explore. I’ll send pictures of places, post recipes of favorite foods, and, if I can, load a few videos of festivals and street fairs all over the world. More than this, I’ll tell you the story of our marriage, when all that we own fits into backpacks and we let go of our workaday lives and spend 24×7 in each other’s company. You’ll hear how we manage our frugal budget, and how we negotiate our relationship when all our familiar comforts are far away. Will this strange adventure make us closer or shall we soon be seeking therapy? Will the unfamiliar surroundings make us more open and tolerant, or shall we hopelessly miss the beauty San Francisco and the camaraderie of our old friends? I don’t know the answers, but over the next six months, I – and through this blog – you – will find out.